


fortissimo

by bonebo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Kinda?, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When this...<i>arrangement</i>—Megatron is too bitter, too jaded, too apathetic a mech to call it a <i>relationship</i>—began, it was for one simple purpose: to serve as a distraction, to keep him from acting foolishly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>a commission for idigoddpairings on tumblr</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	fortissimo

When this... _arrangement_ —Megatron is too bitter, too jaded, too apathetic a mech to call it a _relationship_ —began, it was for one simple purpose: to serve as a distraction, to keep him from acting foolishly.

The end of the war, his trial on Luna 2, talking so closely with Optimus after spending millenia of seeing him as an enemy; it brought back glimpses of the past that Megatron had thought long buried, dead along with his ideals and unwavering morality. And as the memories came they brought with them feelings he had deemed himself without, desires he had considered himself above indulging in, and the fierce longing to enact _every single one_ of them upon Optimus's willing frame, to finally have the mech he'd spent a lifetime chasing.

Of course, he was no closer to that now than he'd been all those millions of years ago. Optimus's lack of interest—his strict moral code, his ultimate focus—had not changed over the course of time.

But something else had.

Megatron had seen the mech before, of course—had noticed his bright paint painfully vivid among the bleak ashes of Nyon, his streaks of flame darting through battlefields across the planet, and even on a few holovids, talking strategy like he had enough miles on his tires to know anything. He was brash and loud and reckless, arrogant and so different from the Prime that he clearly strove to be like.

But there was enough of Orion in him—in his concern for those under his leadership, the way he was so open and receiving to the world, how in the quieter times his cockiness fell away into silent determination—that Megatron could look into those bright blue optics and _just barely_ imagine that they belonged to someone else, someone long gone and nearly forgotten.

It was, however, always a chore.

The first time that Megatron decides to break down and try his idea—he knows that Rodimus thinks he's won some kind of battle of wills, and Megatron _hates_ him for that, for turning even _this_ into a competition—it's nothing short of a _brawl,_ rough and demeaning on both ends, exactly the opposite of how Megatron wished it to be. The second time is similar, with Rodimus snarling insults in his audial and raking yellow paint down Megatron's backstruts, and Megatron finds himself returning the vitriol, venom in his voice as he curses Rodimus's name and fights to his finish. 

Why Rodimus keeps coming back for more—showing up outside Megatron's hab suite with a fanged smirk and hips cocked, sending him comm-chats with only a time and location—Megatron doesn't know, and when he's pounding away at that supple valve he really doesn't _care_. Maybe the kid's a masochist, maybe he just has a thing for hate-fragging; all Megatron bothers to concern himself with is offlining his optics and picturing a different mech, a _lovely_ mech, beneath him as he chases his pleasure. 

But Rodimus is nothing if not dynamic. Megatron should have known that a relationship with him would have to be, as well.

Because a change starts. He has no idea when or how or why, but one day he looks down at the frame stretched below him and notices that Rodimus's paint scheme is a little more appealing, slightly less prone to making his optics bleed. The hisses that were laced with venom before now remind Megatron more of sharp-tongued banter, good-natured and almost fond at their core. Megatron starts to keep his optics online while they frag, appreciating the way Rodimus's body moves beneath him, writhes and trembles and bucks like a live wire; surprisingly, he finds that he doesn't need to imagine a dark blue instead of gaudy orange to satisfy himself.

But what strikes him the most are Rodimus's _noises_.

Breathy pants, sharp gasps, long and drawn-out moans of pleasure—each sound is as unique as the mech that made them, and Megatron finds himself drawn to them, clinging to every one, doing all that he can think of to cause more. 

Sometimes Rodimus seems to try, too—hands roaming over Megatron's plates searchingly, blindly seeking out sensitive junctions and seams—but Megatron fights his traitorous body to stay quiet, loathe to sully the moments with his own sound.

Because his voice is so very old and tired, something rough only associated with terrible times of darkness and bloodshed—good for giving orders to killers and lacking any place in a berthroom, completely at odds with Rodimus's heady cries and low purrs, the music that leaves his responsive frame every time he's touched. To Megatron, the very idea of masking those gorgeous moans with his own ugly noise seems absolutely blasphemous to even think about, and he knows he's already wasted too many chances, missed too much of what Rodimus has to give.

So when they frag he does his best to stay quiet, to stay attentive, to listen—to appreciate each sound he can pull from Rodimus's vocalizer, the airy puff of his vents and the soft whirr of his fans, the moans that spill from him when Megatron runs his hands over his spoiler _just so_. 

There will be a time for his voice later, he knows. He can chastize Rodimus for his leniency toward the delinquents of their crew over a morning meeting, or storm into his office to inform him of some rule broken during the day; he can read the evening announcements so loud that no one can avoid hearing, because it is in these dull, ultimately-monotonous activities that his voice belongs. He will be insistent in his co-captaincy of their crew, firm in his arguments, deafening where it matters.

But he will be silent—awed, appreciative, adoring, afraid to miss a single sound—when they frag.


End file.
